Paris grunted. ‘Good for you,’ he said.
He didn’t have a clue how much sleep he’d managed, but it must have been a lot less than that. Not enough to cope with this great gormless lump arriving on his doorstep anyway. Maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. With any luck it might simply be a bad dream.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘It’s half past nine,’ came the reply. ‘This is the time I usually pick you up when you’re thinking about a case.’
‘And?’
‘And you’re usually ready.’
This was true. Last night, however, had been a very unusual night.
‘You’d better come in,’ said Paris.
He moved out of the way. Bonetti lumbered into the house, his muscles threatening to burst his jacket apart. The customary image appeared in Paris’s head: the Incredible Hulk standing up in court.
‘I don’t mind coming to get you, Boss,’ said Bonetti. ‘I really don’t. We need your giant brain to help us crack the cases. That’s how we solved the Gorton kidnapping, the Fallowfield Arsonist, all the rest of them. We need your – what do you call it? Your contemplating.’
‘But?’ asked Paris.
‘But don’t you ever worry this much contemplating is going to knacker your liver?’
Paris tutted. ‘I don’t have to worry, I’ve got you to do it for me. You worry; I think. Then we’re both doing what we’re good at.’
He headed off down the hallway. Bonetti clumped along behind in a distinctly unworried manner.
Paris opened the living room door. The smell of stale tobacco mixed with curry assaulted his nostrils. He grimaced as he went in. Over his shoulder came a low whistle.
‘You’ve knocked through,’ said Bonetti. ‘Makes a big room, doesn’t it?’
Paris rolled his eyes. Or at least the one eye which currently worked.
‘It was like this when I moved in,’ he replied. ‘You haven’t noticed?’
‘I’ve never been in here before, Boss. I only come into the hall normally, don’t I? And I wouldn’t snoop through the windows. Not your windows, anyhow.’
Paris considered the statement. Although his assistant’s powers of observation might be slightly lacking, for once you couldn’t argue with the logic. When the previous owners took down the wall between the living and dining rooms they had made a very large space, even if he did keep it as two distinct areas. To the right, heading towards the French windows, lay the lounge, occupied by his TV, stereo and sofa, with the coffee table in front of it. An armchair, placed at ninety degrees to the sofa, formed a partial border separating the lounge from the front part of the house. This now served as his study. It still contained a dining table, albeit one put there purely to support a computer, printer, assorted notepads and piles of paper. The arrangement might be boringly functional, he decided, but it worked for him.
Paris moved between the two seats, flopping down into his regular spot on the sofa. Yesterday’s bottle of whisky stood on the table before him. Empty now, it had been joined by a three-quarters-full companion. The ashtray between them overflowed with fag ends. Bonetti sat down on the armchair, pulling a face as he sniffed the air.
‘Thought you were giving up the ciggies?’
‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘Looks like I picked the wrong week to find a dead fairy.’
Bonetti shook his head. ‘We’re not supposed to use the F-word. You said we’ve got to find a logical explanation, remember?’
‘I know,’ replied Paris.
He pondered for a moment. Did he actually want to admit to receiving advice from a talking crow?
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ he said.
He sat blinking as his left eye finally opted to take part in the day. Bonetti shifted his attention away from Paris to examine the coffee table instead.
‘What time does your cleaning lady get here, Boss?’
‘Eleven o’clock. Why?’
‘I guessed she couldn’t have come yet. Otherwise she might’ve thrown you out with the rubbish.’
Paris glared at him. He pointed beyond Bonetti, towards the study.
‘For your information,’ he said, ‘I’ve been doing research. All night, practically. Trying to find out about fairies and related things.’
‘I see. Must be catching.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘A load of funny reports came into the station last night, Boss. Most of them from the same part of Didsbury where we found the body.’
‘Like what?’ asked Paris.
‘Well, a woman rang in, around midnight. Told the desk she’d seen a group of dwarves walking across her garden, carrying shovels. Then two separate people said they’d spotted a unicorn. A unicorn!’
Bonetti grinned, obviously enjoying himself. He shuffled forwards on his seat.
‘We found something else weird, too. Just down the road from here. Not as weird as yesterday, but still pretty good. You know by the park, where the spiky metal fence is? Some guy found a crow’s head on one of the spikes. How loony is that?’
Paris didn’t answer. His stare burned into the sergeant as Bonetti’s grin slowly evaporated.
‘Boss?’ he asked. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘He was right,’ replied Paris. ‘This is what he said would happen.’
‘Who was right?’
‘Malbus the crow. Came to see me last night. Started telling me there’s all this stuff going on, then flew away. Said if you talked they put your head on a pole. And now they have.’
Bonetti gave Paris a very puzzled look.
‘A talking crow?’ he said. ‘No offence, Boss – how much did you have to drink?’
Paris jumped up from the sofa, suddenly wide awake. He leapt across the room to the dining table. ‘Come here!’ he ordered.
He delved through the piles of paper as Bonetti struggled to keep up, in every possible sense. Pages of text and pictures of mythological beings tumbled onto the floor around him.
‘Told me to find out about magical creatures,’ said Paris. ‘So that’s what I did. Printed this lot last night. Found everything I wanted except – ah.’
He grabbed one of the sheets, holding it out in front of him. It was blank apart from a single word written in large blue capitals.
‘Malbus said these were who killed the fairy. The Vanethria. I’ve been searching for info on them for hours and I haven’t found anything. Dragons, mermaids, Loch Ness bloody monster, but nothing on this bunch. Now they’ve killed him as well.’
Bonetti peered down at the paper, then back up at Paris. ‘They’ve killed the Loch Ness monster?’
‘No! They’ve killed the crow!’
‘Right,’ said the junior officer slowly. ‘You’re sure it’s not the booze?’
‘Give me some credit, for God’s sake! You saw the body yesterday. Do you think a talking bird is any crazier?’
Paris paused.
‘I can’t believe I said that.’
He sat down in front of the computer, dumping the paper next to the keyboard. Bonetti hovered beside him, evidently confused.
‘You okay, Boss?’
‘I wish I knew. Apparently there’s a gang of killers on the loose, only they’re not killing people. I don’t know who they are, what they are, or even what they look like.’
Bonetti sidled around Paris’s chair to reach the abandoned note. He picked it up, resting his backside against the table.
‘Vanethria?’ he said. ‘Never heard of them. Is this how you spell it?’
‘Not a clue,’ replied Paris. ‘I just wrote down how it sounded. I’ve tried every variation I could come up with, though. Can’t find anything.’ He stared up at his sergeant’s bemused expression. ‘I hate to say this. I really do. But I might need you to come up with a theory.’
Bonetti scratched his chin while he focused on the piece of paper. Then he raised his head and his jaw dropped.
‘Got something?’ asked Paris.
Bonetti nodded.
‘Boss,’ he whispered. ‘You reckon they might look like giant walking piles of rock?’
‘No idea,’ replied Paris. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because there’s one coming up your garden.’
4
It was nearly a person. The right height. The right number of limbs. But completely the wrong design. A grey patchwork of chipped, broken stones made up its skin. The head included black holes for eyes and a gaping crack for a mouth. The massive torso supported shoulders over two metres wide. Enormous craggy arms hung down almost to the ground, swinging for balance as the creature walked. And it was walking towards the house.
The policemen gaped in amazement as it stomped across the grass.
‘Size of that thing!’ said Bonetti. ‘How can something so big not make any sound?’
‘Easy,’ mumbled Paris. ‘Double glazing.’
‘Great, Boss. Keeps out the noise. Does it keep out monsters?’
Paris didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. A huge hand smashed through the French windows. Glass and wood exploded into the lounge. Paris leapt up from his chair.
‘Run!’ he shouted.
They dived for the door. It swung open before they could reach it. The cops skidded to a halt in front of a silver sword blade.
‘Do not move!’ ordered a voice.
Paris looked from the rapier to its owner. Shorter than himself, wearing some kind of medieval tunic above brown trousers. His piercing eyes were bright blue beneath his neat blonde hair. This intruder seemed to be flesh and blood, at least. He might even be an ordinary person. Apart from the extraordinary pointed ears reaching up to the top of his head.
The newcomer stepped into the room, flicking a glance towards the sounds of breaking furniture. Paris kept his attention fixed on the weapon. Hearing his belongings being trashed was bad enough without watching it happen.
The noise grew louder as the rock thing moved closer.
‘That will do,’ said the swordsman. ‘Stay there now.’
Heavy footsteps thudded to a stop behind Paris. He felt cold, clammy breath on the back of his head and a very large presence looming over him. He forced himself to look straight ahead.
The short man with the tall ears shifted his gaze between the two policemen.
‘Is one of you Paris?’ he asked.
The inspector swallowed. ‘I am.’
The swordsman smiled.
‘We have been searching for you,’ he said.
‘What do you want?’
‘In due course. First, there is something I must say.’ He lowered his sword. ‘Sorry.’
Paris stared at him blankly. ‘Come again?’
‘This is not how I had planned to meet. However, it is done now.’
‘You’re apologising before you kill us?’
‘No, I am not here to kill you. I am apologising for the mess.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Slight communication problem. You know how it is. I am terribly sorry.’
Open-mouthed, Paris turned his head slowly. He leant forward, peering around Bonetti. What used to be French windows was now a yawning hole in the wall, with splinters of wood hanging uselessly from its edges. The TV screen had been smashed into pieces. Books and broken CD cases lay strewn across the floor. He stood up straight again, anger rising as he did so.
‘You moron!’ he snapped. ‘Your pet rock has destroyed my bloody living room!’
Paris shut up as the swordsman raised his weapon again. Reaching over the policemen, he touched the flat of it against the stone creature’s forehead. He whispered something unintelligible, then withdrew the blade.
‘Sleeping now,’ he said. ‘There will be no more damage. So; I have apologised. I can do nothing else for the moment. Now perhaps we could discuss why I am here, without any further unpleasantness?’
He spoke in a friendly manner, but he held his rapier in a much less congenial way. Paris considered his options. Although struggling to remain calm, he decided that discussion was the better part of Valium. He rummaged in his pocket for his keys.
‘Bonetti,’ he said, ‘go out to the garage. There’s a big tarpaulin at the back. See if you can cover up the hole before the neighbours start poking their noses in.’
The sergeant took the keys, grateful for the chance to escape. He squeezed himself past the sword, clearly leaving as quickly as he could manage.
Paris looked at the remaining unwelcome guest. He weighed him up, from the pointy ears to the antiquated shirt.
‘Talk,’ he said. ‘What the hell are you – Star Trek does Robin Hood?’
‘I am an elf,’ came the reply, with no sign of annoyance. ‘My name is Tergil. And this is a rock troll. Called Rocky.’
Paris raised an eyebrow. ‘Rocky?’
‘You would not be able to comprehend the troll language. So, yes; Rocky.’
Paris tried to think of a witty retort. Nothing. Far too soon after waking up.
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
He moved away from the apparently sleeping rock troll to where his sofa and armchair were somehow still intact. The coffee table had not been quite so lucky. Smashed bottles lay on the carpet beside it, the odour of spilled whisky mixing in with yesterday’s pong. He thought for a moment he should clean it up – then he took the rest of the lounge into account. Why bother? He slumped down onto his normal seat, wafting a hand towards the rubble.
‘Your boy’s certainly done some destruction, hasn’t he?’
‘She,’ replied Tergil.
Paris stared at the elf, then at the enormous figure in front of him. ‘That’s a she?’
‘Of course. You need to have female rock trolls as well as male ones. Where do you imagine little rock trolls come from?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
The elf moved round to the front of the armchair. He lowered himself into it, resting his sword against the seat.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she has unfortunately caused a lot of damage. She is used to living in caves, you see. Houses are rather small and fragile for her. Plus she does not know her own strength. Please try to forgive her, though; all children have accidents.’
Paris raised both eyebrows. ‘So it’s not just a “she”. It’s a kid?’
‘She is almost ten years old in your terms. I am her father. Her adoptive father, to be precise. I took her in after her parents were killed. In a rockslide, bizarrely enough.’
‘Both parents?’ said Paris. ‘That’s not nice for any child.’
‘This was even worse. It took an age to find the bodies.’
Tergil looked round at the enormous shape behind him.
‘She is tired,’ he said. ‘We have walked all night to get here. Also the earlier part of the morning. Moving surreptitiously, of course.’
Paris really wished he could raise three eyebrows.
‘Surreptitious?’ he said. ‘You two? I’d hate to see when you were being obvious!’
The elf faced him again. ‘I required nothing more than a simple spell of concealment. And, unless she moves, Rocky is merely a pile of stones to most humans. You would be amazed how unobservant your race is. No offence.’
Paris took none. He’d lost count of how many times witnesses failed to pick suspects out of a line-up. Although, he decided, there’d be no problem with this pair.
‘We arrived only a few minutes ago,’ continued Tergil. ‘We entered your garden through the rear gate. Seeing nobody around, I asked Rocky to wait there while I conducted reconnaissance. You evidently came into the living room during my absence. She must have noticed you, became excited, then made her way inside.’
He tapped the hilt of his sword.
‘That is why I entered with my weapon drawn. When I heard the commotion, I assumed you might hurt her.’
Paris studied the colossal stone body again. There wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of him harming it in the slightest. He looked at Tergil’s expression and manage
d not to laugh.
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asked instead. He waved his arm towards the broken windows. ‘And I can tell how she got in. But how did you? Sorcery, I suppose?’
‘No,’ replied the elf. ‘You left the front door open.’
Paris cursed silently. His brain toyed with the awful phrase “it’s a fair cop”.
‘As to why we are here,’ said Tergil, ‘we learnt of the dead fairy.’
‘News travels fast,’ said Paris. ‘I suppose you’ve got some sort of supernatural information network?’
‘Yes. And mobile phones.’ Tergil leant forward, fixing his blue eyes on the policeman. ‘I heard about you as well, Inspector Paris. You were in charge when the body was discovered.’
‘So?’
‘You have observed a magical creature. You know that we exist.’
Paris wondered how this could be a good thing. He still hoped they were all a figment of his imagination.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen magic creatures. Great. You’re not here to kill me because I’ve seen them, which is even better. So what do you want?’
‘What do you think?’ replied Tergil. ‘Political asylum.’
5
Paris studied his commanding officer as she looked through the window. Superintendent Maria Thorpe had been in the force thirty years and possessed a razor-sharp mind to go with her experience. She always kept her staff on their toes. As she pointed towards the glass, he anticipated an incisive question heading his way.
‘Is that him?’
Paris felt a little deflated. Keep you on your toes? Hardly worth standing up for.
‘Yup,’ he replied. ‘There’s the elf himself.’
‘But,’ said Thorpe, ‘he looks so… ordinary!’
On the other side of the window lay Interview Room Two. The one-way mirror meant Tergil could not see them while they watched him. Paris had to agree with the superintendent: he didn’t appear to be worth watching. And that, of course, was the intention. The sword and scabbard had been left at the house, so now the elf was merely a man. Slightly shorter than average, wearing brown corduroy trousers with scuffed walking boots. An old green jumper covered the beige tunic, and his ears were hidden beneath a bright red woolly hat. Less of a mythical being, Paris ventured. More like a student teacher on a pub crawl.
Breaking the Lore Page 2